


Safe and Sound

by Ninjathrowingstork



Category: Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Netflix marvel
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Trish's Krav Maga shows up briefly, Ward Meachum Needs a Hug, Ward finds a friend, Work In Progress, actual superhero Trish Walker, aftermath of abuse, and to make better life choices, harold meachum should have stayed dead the first time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjathrowingstork/pseuds/Ninjathrowingstork
Summary: For the first time in his life, Ward Meachum was alone. For the first time in his life, he was finally free from Harold's control and abuse, but with Joy and Danny also gone, he had no one else to trust and confide in. Then a chance encounter at a party brings someone new into his life.





	1. Chapter 1

He hated going to things like this. It had always been Joy who'd loved the parties and galas and benefits more than he did. He was always too stiff, too awkward, and not just because there were too many people he didn't know or care to know suddenly trying to be his friend; any slip up or misplaced word, any gaffe, would eventually make it back to his father. Even something he did right, any new friends he might make, could become a liability for Harold to manipulate, exploit, destroy. Joy was gone now, to who-knows-where, and with Danny likewise fled to parts unknown, it fell to him to represent the company at the gala for. . . whichever foundation it was. _(He's gone now._ ) Ward reminded himself. _(You can smile and laugh and shake hands and be a functional human being now. Dad isn't watching anymore.)_ It'd been a week with no orders or summons, no Joy to fight him or Danny to make his already complicated life even more difficult and complex. A week alone. Still, it'd taken a drink in the car to calm his nerves enough to leave the limo, and then whatever the waiter had passed him from the tray once he was inside to feel he was convincingly wearing the face of Ward Meachum, CEO. He'd smiled and schmoozed and greeted old business acquaintances. At some point, he'd lost count of both the drinks and the faces he'd greeted, the whole party becoming a blur of light and voices and a glass in his hand. Finally, he was blearily aware of the man whom he'd been holding what must have been an intelligible conversation introducing him to a blonde woman in a dark blue dress then leaving them alone before Ward had processed what her name was.

As he opened his mouth to ask who she was, the room pitched around him and his stomach gave a lurch. With one hand pressed to his mouth, he caught himself against the polished marble wall as he half slid to his knees, fighting back the nausea as he tried to clear his head enough to stand. The sounds of the gala seemed distant and more muted than before as the haze of alcohol threatened to envelop him. He thought he heard someone calling his name. Out of the darkness, suddenly, he felt a pair of hands supporting him under his shoulders, pulling him back to his feet before shifting so one mystery arm was around his waist and the other was on his arm, and he found himself being directed down one hallway and then another despite his weak protests. For a moment, he dimly wondered if this was a kidnapping, if he'd been given a spiked drink and was being spirited out of the building, and who'd arrange for his ransom now that Danny and Joy were gone, if anyone else would care. If he should even care.

Then they were through a swinging door and into bright, cold, fluorescent lights, and he was being directed to a stall as his stomach gave another lurch before emptying itself into the toilet he was being held over. Once the heaves were done, Ward gradually became aware of his surroundings again. He realized there was still one arm across his chest, holding his tie clear of the bowl, and a hand was gently smoothing his hair off his forehead and into place. As his awareness was just processing that there was the shape of a person next to him wearing something dark blue and shimmering, he found himself once more directed away, through the door and into another one before he was being lowered into an armchair and told to stay put. Then he was alone. In the sudden stillness, he finally allowed himself to relax into the cushions, the sounds of the party faintly audible still, and his breathing still shaky after heaving his guts out moments before. Then the door was swung open again, and the blonde from before was striding across the floor to him, with what looked like a wad of wet napkins in one hand and a paper cup of something in the other.

"Here." She pressed the paper cup into his hand. "Rinse your mouth out with this."

He took a sip, found it to be just water, and obediently drank the rest, rinsing the flavor of acid and alcohol from his mouth as he quietly wished to never taste tequila again. As soon as the cup was empty, it was plucked from his unresisting hand and a gentle touch on his chin was directing him to look up into the woman's face.

"Look at me, ok? Let's finish getting you cleaned up.” She wiped the last bits of vomit and the thin layer of cold sweat off his face with the damp napkins. He tried to bat the hands away, but his attempts were easily deflected. As she turned to toss the napkins into the trashcan in the corner, her face finally began to look familiar, and he was certain he'd heard her voice before that night.

"He-hey, I didn't get your name before," he finally croaked out, cursing how his own voice sounded.

She looked over her shoulder at him as she dragged another chair across the floor to face his before sitting smoothly. "I'm Trish Walker, we were introduced earlier, right before you nearly puked on my pumps. You're Ward Meachum, I know," she added as he opened his mouth, and taking the offered hand in a much more firm handshake than his own at the moment, "and you're welcome, by the way."

"For which part? I think-" he paused to let his head clear for a moment. "I think you just saved me from social disgrace out there. I've never actually done. . . this at a party before." The last statement was accompanied with a vague gesture at his disheveled appearance before dropping his head into his hands, hair once more flopping out of place around his face. _(Shit. Fuck. Trish Walker. Patsy Walker. I almost barfed on Patsy Walker's shoes.)_ "So thank you, for all of it. You don't have to stay back here with me if you have somewhere to be, I'll be fine soon." That drew a smirk from her.

"Mr. Meachum, you're not the first drunk I've helped at a party before, though you're a lot taller than the usual drunk mess who needs my help. And if I leave you here now someone might wonder why you were sitting in the lounge outside the women's restroom alone."

"Wait, we're-" In sudden alarm, he suddenly became aware of his surroundings, and looking at the door, struggled to half-rise from the chair. "No, I can't - shouldn't - thank you again, but I-" _(I'm enough of an embarrassment already, I shouldn't be in here, you shouldn't be in here with me, oh god.)_

Standing with him, she gently pushed him back into the cushions. "Hey, hey, stay here, ok? You're not going anywhere like that right now. No one's gonna get mad if I have a drunk friend in here 'cause he needs to sit for a bit. Just give yourself some time to clear your head."

Friend? He struggled to read her expression as she'd guided him back down. (How much of a pathetic mess did he look?) "Don' wanna embarrass you if someone find us though," he managed to slur out. "An' you can call me Ward"

That drew a crooked grin from her (God, she was pretty. Too pretty to be looking after his drunk-as-shit self.) "Well, Ward, the days when I cared what people thought about what I did in my personal life were over long ago, and if anyone walked that door right now, I'd say we're talking about my show, or something. You don't need to worry about my reputation. Or yours, right now" she added.

 _(Damn, she's good)_ Ward finally allowed himself to relax back into the armchair again, and realized he actually felt. . .safe? He'd stupidly had too much to drink and was helpless as a kitten, and now this gorgeous woman he'd secretly admired for years was making sure he didn't make an even bigger ass of himself, and he found himself actually feeling safe around her. "Thanks, again. I've- heh, I've been a fan of yours for years. " He pulled himself up in the chair, trying to look slightly more dignified and less of a drunken party boy, cursing himself for actually admitting his admiration but unable to stop. "I used to watch your show with my sister when we were kids."

At that her smile seemed to slightly freeze, and Ward mentally kicked himself before pushing on. "I remember readin' about your case with you mom, how you took her to court over. . . what she did to you. That- that was incredibly brave, and I remember wanting- _(Wanting that kind of courage for myself, wanting someone to see what Dad was doing to me and help keep him away from me and from Joy)_ -wantin' to tell you how much I admired that. . . bravery." _(Shutupshutupshutup you sound like a rambling idiot Ward)_ That drew a laugh from her, and for a moment he cringed mentally, that he really had gone too far and either she hated him for mentioning her mother, or she'd think he was a total socially inept idiot and was laughing at his drunken confession before walking out. He realized that, strangely, he didn't want her to leave.

Instead, Trish reached out and gently laid her hand over his, where he was grasping the arm of the chair. "Wow, that was. . . that was a long time ago, but thank you. Both for remembering, since I thought that happened not long before your dad died and you had other things to worry about, and for thinking I was brave." He looked at her in confusion. "I let my mom. . .get away with too much for too long, and it took my sister's. . . strength and support to get me to go through with getting away from her." Something about how she said the last part seemed like it was supposed to be a joke, but Ward guessed he was too out of it to understand. "But you," she continued "I remember reading about your father's funeral, and how you took over the company at what, eighteen? Nineteen? And you've been running it since then? That's incredible, Ward."

This time it was his turn to laugh, but it sounded sad and broken in his ears. Turning his hand where hers was still covering it, Ward loosely wrapped his fingers over hers. "Yeah, ever since dear old dad died. Just me and Joy, running Rand. Reaaaaal figurehead of the company, the papers say." He let his head loll to the side, looking away to avoid meeting her eyes, to let her see the lie he'd told and been telling for over a decade. The sadness and guilt and misery he'd been pushing down began to creep back around his consciousness through the boozy haze, and he felt his eyes sliding shut and hoped that sleep would take him before he accidentally told her the whole filthy truth.

"Hey." Trish was shaking the hand he still had linked with hers. Her grip was comforting somehow, and he found he didn't want her to let go. "Hey, Ward, you need to stay with me just a bit longer, ok?" With a flash of disappointment, he felt her pull her fingers away, and a moment later he was being patted down as agile hands checked his jacket for his cell phone before plucking it from an inner pocket. "Here, you better not have driven yourself." Pulling his eyes open again, he found the blonde standing over him, pressing the phone into the hand she'd just been holding. "Call your car, and I'll wait with you until it's ready. I'm not leaving you until you're in the car and headed home, alright?"

He found himself nodding along with her as she spoke _(Like a damn child, Ward. Shut up, shut up you're dead)_ Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that was eerily not his, he mechanically dialed his driver and ordered the car to be brought out front in a few minutes. As he talked, Trish pulled out her own phone and sent off a quick text before tucking it back into her purse.

"Ok, he's on his way with the car." Finished with the call, Ward fumbled the phone back into his jacket. "I'll be fine, really. You really don't have to stay with me."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"I call bullshit. Tell me you could walk in a straight line the way you are now."

"You'v' already done too much and I'm perfectly cap'ble-"

"Of tripping over your own feet on the stairs outside, yes, I know." Standing, she tilted her head, staring down at him for a moment. "Wait there, I'll be right back." With a twirl, she was out the door and gone again.

 _(Thought you said you'd stay with me)_ he half-joked to himself, slouching back into the cushions once more. Again, before his eyes had a chance to fully close, she was back, this time with two paper cups. Setting one on the table beside his chair, she pressed the other into his hand and guided it to his mouth. "Here, drink more water. It's not much for getting you sobered up right now, but we're making sure you walk out of here with some dignity." As he took over holding the cup and slowly gulping the water she scooped up the other cup again. "Eat these too. Deviled eggs from the buffet, so they're not much, but it's protein, and they're kinda bland really so you'll be ok." Finished with the water, they switched cups and he made a face at the gooey contents before fishing out half and egg that had probably looked elegant hours before when the party began.

When the egg halves were also gone and the cups disposed of, Trish stood a final time, shoving her chair away across the floor. "Ok, think you're good to stand up now?"

"I'm-? Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat, then tried to lever himself up from the armchair before collapsing back down.

"Here." He looked up at her standing over him, blue dress shimmering and the light making her hair into a golden halo around her head, like some guardian angel of drunken former child stars and prodigies, one hand reaching down to help him up. "Here, I'll pull you up."

As he obediently grabbed for her hand, she reached around and took a surprisingly firm grip on his wrist, hauling him to his feet as she took a step back. For a moment the room seemed to tilt around him and he swayed before steadying himself. He automatically began to smooth his hair back into place once his hand was released, and when he went to redo the buttons on his blazer, he found her hands already doing them up before moving up to fix his tie. "Ok, the final stage of Operation Save Ward Meachum's Dignity: you're going to walk out there with me on your arm, but let me do the driving so I keep you going in a straight line. You'll look like you're walking me out, since we've been back here talking for a while. I doubt anyone is sober enough to notice, but I've been doing this long enough not to take chances when there are cameras around. Your car's waiting out front, right?" He nodded dumbly in response. "So's mine, so you're going to walk me out the front doors, and I'm going to make sure you're safe inside your car, got it?"

 _(Safe)_ His drunken brain had caught the word and hung onto it. She'd already made sure he was safe, hadn't she? He stared down at the blonde who, without knowing him, had bodily pulled him away from humiliating himself in front of people, and now was promising to make sure he left that night with his reputation intact. Again, he nodded silently.

At his confirmation, she scooped up her clutch and, looping her arms around one of his, stood so he felt her steadying him with one shoulder, ready to take his weight if he stumbled. "Now, out this door and around the corner, ready."

With one more clearing of his throat, he replied that he was.

"Ok, now-" And they were out the door. Ward felt himself steered down the hallway to the next, and finally they were back out in the grand ballroom, and Trish was nodding and calling farewell to people as she walked him past them and out through the lobby doors and down the stairs. She didn't stop until they were at the curb where their cars were waiting.

"T-Trish, you really didn't have to do any of this. Is there somethin'-anythin' I-"

"Ward, I didn't do this for anything from you. I've just been where you are now and I'm being the person I needed then."

 _(No, no you really haven't been here)_ "No, I- I wanna say th'nk you somehow," he slurred out, leaning against his car as the driver opened the door for him.

"A simple 'thanks for saving my dignity, Trish' would be enough, but if you really want to do something for me, I'd accept you coming on my show for an interview as thanks."

 _(Me? On TrishTalk? Why would she want to interview me? And dear old Dad would turn in his grave if he knew I was giving an interview on a daytime radio show. All three of his graves. No, stop it.)_ The thought of his father's remains ever stirring again was almost enough to make him sober up. "I- sure, I- talk to m' assistant an-"

She fished out his phone from his jacket again, and started typing something in. "I swear, I wasn't doing all this for an interview, so thank you so much. I'm giving you my contact info and a reminder that we spoke." She looked up at him with that crooked grin again. "You can have her call me back and we'll set up an appointment to go over interview questions, and then an actual date for the show, ok? You don't need to remember all that now," she added as his eyes began to close again. Dropping the phone back into his jacket, she helped him fold himself into the back seat of the car and buckle up.

Just before she swung the door shut, she leaned back in, hair flowing forward over her shoulders. "It really was a pleasure meeting you, Ward, even if it wasn't under the most dignified of circumstances."

He grinned back up at her blearily. "Likewise. You are by far the most intelligent and charmin’ woman who's ever kept me from puking on my own shoes. Thanks for keepin' me safe, Trish."

Before the door slammed shut, he heard her laugh once more and wish him good night.

_(Safe)_


	2. Chapter 2

Hangovers were a bitch. They were even worse, Ward realized the next morning, when your painkiller options were limited to over-the-counter non-opioids. Still, he mused, anything was better than going back to the dependency on meds to deal with the living hell his life had been before,  to  chemically numb the ever-present anxiety and fear and paranoia, and, more frequently than he liked to admit to himself, actual physical pain from being hit. He wasn't going back. He'd been dragged kicking and screaming through his detox, and he refused to let himself be made that weak and helpless and numb to the world by the pills again. That didn't change the fact, he thought, walking through the freshly refurbished office the next morning, that hangovers were a bitch. 

 

The night before was something of a blur still, but he had a vague memory of promising an interview to a figure made of gold light and shimmering blue as thanks for getting him back into his car before he made a drunken fool of himself. For the life of him, though, his hazy, hungover brain couldn't recall the face or name or what else they'd said that night. It wasn't until he'd bluffed his way through two meetings and a conference call, and was looking over market statistics for emerging technologies as he idly wondered if lunch would be a good idea when an alarm he didn't remember setting on his phone went off: " _ 12:30 - call Trish Walker for interview and finish sobering up. You're welcome for not letting you barf on my shoes and your tie"  _ Trish Walker. ( _ Shit. That was Patricia Walker last night. Patsy. How the hell could I forget meeting her?)  _ Then the events of the night before, his stupidly overdoing it on the drinks at the party, her coming to his rescue and dragging him away from everyone, cleaning him off and keeping him company as he began to sober up, and finally making sure he made it out to his car without falling on his face.  _ (I wanted to thank her. Did I offer to give her anything? Money? No, that would be an insult.)  _ He buried his face in his hands as he dropped phone back on the desk, suddenly grateful his mind had shielded him from the embarrassing memories that morning. How big of a jerk was he when he was drunk?  _ (She asked for me to come on her show instead, and I said yes. Not the worst thing I could've done, but why would she want me as a guest?) _

 

Ward wasn't his sister; people liked Joy, and she liked being around people. She'd have been the obvious choice to be on TrishTalk; hell, he knew she even listened to the show when she had time. She was the friendly, outgoing one of the siblings who hadn't grown up with the ever-present fear of the consequences for any PR misstep. Still, he'd agreed to give an interview, and he owed Trish that much after she'd gone out of her way to help him. 

 

Pulling up the contact information she'd given him, he quickly jotted down the number.  "MEGAN!" A moment later and his long-suffering assistant was swinging open his door, asking what he needed. "I've been asked to be a guest on TrishTalk, and I need you to call and set up an appointment with them." As he handed over the paper with the phone number, he could've laughed at her look of surprise.  _ (Trust me, I'm just as surprised as you are.) _

 

**_*_ ** _ ** _

 

The day slid by, and he was told that they'd like him to come on the show in three days, since their guest for that Thursday had just cancelled on them. Over the next few days emails were sent back and forth; first a list of questions and topics they could discuss on the show that he went over and, after making a few changes (like hell he'd talk about his father and 'the legacy he left behind'), sent it back, then the updated list with his changes, plus a few more suggestions arrived and was finally approved. They gave him a time to arrive, and all that was left was to show up. And wait. 

 

For three days. 

 

Life at Rand continued as usual, or, as what Ward thought of as the "new normal"; without Joy by his side to confide in and support him, without Harold's orders and summons and constant surveillance. Without the pills to numb the pain and make him not care. He had three days to think about and worry over the interview, his first live one flying solo. The first one he'd also given to a host who'd seen him drunk and without his corporate professional face on. Ward almost wished for the emotional numbness the meds had given him again.  _ (Stop worrying over it, you've done hundreds of interviews over the years. You're just. . . going through some stuff right now.)  _ That was it, though. He  _ had  _ done this before, just not with someone who'd been so close to seeing the truth of Ward Meachum, and not when that facade was barely staying put, but it was the only thing keeping him going some days.

 

Soon, though, the day of the interview rolled around and Ward found himself striding through the station lobby, trying to ignore the growing knot in his gut, one hand fluttering to his pocket out of habit for a pill case that was no longer there. As he reached the front desk and was about to ask where to go, a young man with a clipboard swooped in and, asking if he was Mr. Meachum, introduced himself as Trish Walker's assistant and asked Ward to follow him. He found himself led through the elevator and up the building, the younger man quickly explaining what they'd need him to do. It was really just sitting and talking about the questions they'd agreed on, but it was still reassuring to go over what they had planned. 

 

With a practiced ease he greeted Trish again, and to his relief she gave no hint that the last time he'd been plastered and barely able to stand on his own. The blonde woman looked different in the light of sobriety and daylight; less like a shimmering angel and more like a charming, chic young. . .  _ (warrior princess? What the hell?)  _ The thought had jumped into his head, but, he realized, it was true. Something in her expression reminded him more of Danny's friend Colleen, with her sword and ninja skills, than any of the countless other interviewers he'd met before. Her charm and poise, he knew from experience, came from years of practice until it was second nature, but there was a steeliness there also.  _ (How did I miss that before? By being a drunken idiot, Ward. Shut up, you never cared before anyway.)  _ Joy could be a tough businesswoman, sure, and she had more of their father in her than even he liked to admit, but there was something about Trish Walker, as she brought him into the studio and seated him, and they chatted as they got settled, that suggested a toughness not even his sister had. 

 

" _ And we're live in three. . ." _

 

Then she slipped her jacket off. The livid bruises stood out sharply on her arms in the studio light. Ward caught himself staring at the same moment she did, catching and holding his gaze.

 

". . .t _ wo. . ." _

 

Smoothly, the jacket was slipped back up over her shoulders, covering the purple blotches.

 

". . .  _ one. . ."  _

 

_     "Don't say a word,"  _ her look read. "Hi, this is Trish Walker, and you're listening to Trish Talk. Today we have a very different guest for you, but one with a name you’ll no doubt recognize." 

 

To Ward's surprise, the show went without a hitch. By the time the woman seated across the table had finished the opening and introduced him, old instincts had kicked in and he slid easily into his practiced interview mode, keeping his answers light and diplomatic, nothing too definite or revealing. She didn't make it easy, though. Trish Walker, he realized, wasn't the usual variety of interviewer he'd met before. To his surprise he was actually enjoying himself.

 

He'd known what topics she'd ask him about, but he hadn't expected a discussion of his background to turn to the work he'd initially done with Rand's architecture subsidiary firm, and the developments he'd made there. That was something he'd done on his own without Harold's instruction, and he was still proud of that.  _ (Can't say that, though. You're still supposed to have been some business wunderkind.)  _ Every time he veered too close to canned statements and prepared answers, she drew him out to elaborate, somehow taking lines that sounded stale in his ears and gently pushing him to tell them as stories until the company that had always felt like a burden and a curse seemed. . . alive. Alive and dynamic and like the family business Danny saw it as.  _ (Not much of a family left there.)  _ He knew she could tell there were details he avoided, and when she teased about "corporate secrets" he found himself bantering back, light and easy and charming. Before he knew it, she was thanking him and the show was wrapping up and she was signing off. 

 

And he remembered the bruises on her arms and the way she’d hid them.

 

"Ward, thank you so much again for coming in today,” Trish broke into his thoughts, standing smoothly and extending her arm for a final handshake. 

 

“It was my pleasure, really. And I did owe you one, after all.” 

 

There was that laugh again; bright and quick. She paused before the studio door, and replied in a lower tone “And I told you that you didn’t owe me anything. Really.” Then she was out the door, leading out in her wake before he had time to reply. “Is your car waiting for you outside?” she called back over her shoulder, almost repeating her words from the party deliberately, and it was his turn to laugh in surprise  _ (god, when was the last time he’d actually laughed like that?)  _ before confirming that it was. 

 

“Hey!” the blonde called out to someone in her crew. “I’ll be right back, just heading down to the lobby.” As the muffled reply sounded across the room, she turned back to him. “Thought I’d walk you down to your car. You don’t mind, do you?” Ward replied with a grin, that it would be a pleasure and, as the elevator door dinged open, he gestured for her to lead the way. Silence hung between them for a moment after the doors dinged shut, neither looking at the other.. For the first time, they were alone and both sober. Finally he half-turned to his companion, not able to fully look at her as he asked "are- are you ok, Trish?"

 

"Of course I am, and thank you for asking. And you look better than the last time I saw you, Ward." She was deflecting and they both knew it. 

 

"I meant-" he nodded vaguely at her arms. "I know, it's none of my business but-"

 

"You're right, it's not"

 

"If someone's hurting you, Trish, I can-"

 

"I said I'm ok. Really." Her tone was softer, more insistent.

 

"I have. . . I'm. . . I know how hard it can be. . ." (Just say it, dammit, you've also been there. I kept what he did to me a secret, and it nearly destroyed me.")

 

"Ward, I'm fine. These," she shrugged slightly, indicating the marks on her arms, still hidden under her blazer, "they're not what you think, and I don't need your help. No one gets to touch me anymore unless I let them."

 

There was that iron in her voice again, and Ward wanted desperately to believe her, that she really wasn't in danger.  _ (Two messed up kids of psycho parents. Please please be ok. You did what I couldn't so please be ok now.) _

 

She must have seen the lingering doubt in his expression, because she turned to him, popping one hip and leaning slightly on the elevator wall. "If you're really that concerned for my safety, let me prove it to you. Come to dinner tomorrow night." That caught him off guard for a moment. "Tomorrow. . .?"

 

"Yeah, tomorrow night work for you?"

 

Before he could reply, the elevator doors dinged and slid open. Smoothly standing again, Trish led him out and across the marble-floored lobby. "Unless you have something else, then we can do it a different night."

 

"I. . .um" he floundered, momentarily lost by the conversational shift. "Trish, I wouldn't want to impose, I was just asking if things were ok for you and-"

 

"I know what you were asking, and I appreciate your concern for me."

 

By then they'd reached the front doors and the blonde stopped short, turning to face him once more. "If you're really concerned for me and want answers, this is is how you'll get them." When he tried to reply, she cut him off and continued "No. Come to dinner. Bring the wine. 

Again, the sudden shift in her tone threw him off balance. "We can finally actually chat, and either we'll both be drunk or both sober. So, tomorrow night at seven?" There was that wicked, sideways grin again. 

"Yes, uh, seven sounds perfect," he finally stuttered out. 

  
"Great! Well, I have to get back to my crew, so I'll see you tomorrow night." A final handshake and a turn on her heel and Trish Walker was striding back into the station, leaving him to wonder what had just happened.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy, things are picking up! And poor Ward is much better at looking out for other people than he is at looking out for himself, isn't he? Also, the detail about Ward's work with the architectural firm comes from his LinkedIn profile, which is a thing of beauty you should totally check out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner preparations and revelations from both parties, plus a martial arts lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter, it's con season and I've been pulled into the rush of getting stuff ready for comic-con next month. We have things happening in this chapter, though! Plus a POV change, so we finally see Trish's perspective on stuff.

 Her apartment wasn't what he expected when he reached her front door the next night; elegant without being ostentatious, and the reinforced door and camera were a surprise as well. The added security brought back memories of another fortified apartment.  ( _Don't think about that tonight)_

"Hey, you're a bit early, so food isn't in the oven yet," her voice carried scratchily through the microphone by the door.

 

 Raising the bottle of wine to the camera and gesturing vaguely at it replied "I hope this can make up for it" Her laugh in response came through for a second before she was gone and the door was swung open.

 

"I'm glad you decided to show up, Ward."

 

For a moment he found himself staring, caught off guard by her appearance; dressed in jeans and a softly draping blouse, it was the most casual he'd seen her, and even relaxed in her own home she seemed like some  _ (warrior princess. Stop it, you’re imagining things.) _ . Shaking himself, he gave an awkward shrug, "hey, I still feel like I owe you for the other night, and since you barely accepted my being on your show as thanks, I figured it's the least I can do to, you know, ask about. . ."  _ (Shut up Ward, you're rambling again) _

 

She cocked an eyebrow at the flow of words before, with a half smile at the corner of her mouth, nodded for him to come in, "yeah, I know, and I'll answer your questions later. Come on, we can talk while the food cooks" 

 

As she led him in through the entryway and up the steps into the main room, Ward was once again reminded of the penthouse, and how different it was to this apartment; for all the fortifications, and what he was fairly sure was bulletproof glass (there was something different about how the evening light hit it), unlike the crypt-like vault that his father had lived and manipulated people's lives from, Trish's apartment felt like a fortress, like a safe haven where she seemed more relaxed and natural than he'd seen her before. Like a home. 

 

"You can set the wine over there for now. What'd you bring?"

 

He handed over the bottle silently for her inspection, barely concealing his grin at her look of approval of his selection. 

 

"Well, getting drunk on this stuff will definitely be a pleasure, but that can wait until after dinner." Setting the bottle on the countertop by the fridge, she turned and started pulling various containers out of a pair of plastic bags on the opposite counter. 

 

Suddenly, he felt overdressed and too formal in his tailored suit, not having changed after leaving the office. "So, um," he cleared his throat nervously, "what  _ is  _  dinner anyway?" 

 

"You mean other than a meal? And you can leave your jacket over that chair, if you like." 

 

"Ah, uh, I'm good for now, thanks."

 

"Anyway, as for the meal, I happen to know the chef of a new Italian place that just opened, and who owed me a favor, so he set me up with the the works for a full meal, to finish being assembled here, right down to the garlic bread." She punctuated the last line by shaking an oblong, foil-wrapped shape at him. "So, if you'll grab plates from up there, and start plating the salad, I can pop these trays in the oven." 

 

Together they worked quickly under her direction as they prepared dishes and laid out table settings. Unwrapping the pile of paper and foam containers, they chopped and mixed and handed plates back and forth. They chatted lightly as they worked, about the show and his interview, about a new product Rand was developing and how he might want to give a follow-up interview when it hit the market, about Danny Rand's reappearance and if he might want to appear on the show as well once he returned from China again until everything was on the table and ready except for the metal trays in the oven,  full of what smelled like something in Alfredo sauce. 

 

"Ok," Trish finally stated, leaning against the fridge, arms casually crossed. "Deal's a deal, you wanted to know about. . ." she shrugged one shoulder slightly. 

 

_ (Wait what is she-)  _ Ward stopped short in confusion.  _ (shit she means the bruises.)  _ In the easy familiarity of preparing dinner, and the coziness and security of Trish's apartment, he'd nearly forgotten his main reason for going that night. "Trish, I. . . I just wanted to know if you're ok, or if there's something. . . really, you can talk to me if. . . "

 

"Ward, enough," she put out one hand to cut him off. There was something sad in her eyes, despite her grin, but he couldn't tell who for. "Like I said, I'm fine. Really, it'd just be easier to show you. C'mon" Turning and gesturing over her shoulder for him to follow, she led the way through the sliding doors to her room, and Ward noticed the camera in the corner in the same moment that he took in the creeping ivy painted over the pastel wall. "You might have noticed I've had some security improvements installed beyond just my front door. There's even a panic room." she called over her shoulder as she skipped down the short flight of steps, pausing before the door at the end of the hall for him to catch up. "When my sister Jess moved out, I decided not to just let her room sit empty." Swinging the wood paneled door open, the blonde gestured for him to lead the way in. 

 

After After having seen the security in place, and having been told she'd gone as far as installing a panic room  _ (and who the hell has a panic room? Not even dad had one, at least not before he practically lived in one)  _ Ward didn't know what to expect in the room, but it wasn't the small gym with punching bags, dummies, and mats on the floor. 

 

"After my mother," her voice behind him pulled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Trish slowly entering after him, "I decided I'd never be helpless again. It's not a perfect solution, but training at least gives me a better chance if anyone. . . tries anything." Reading his puzzlement, she once again beckoned him to follow her onto the mats. "Here, take a swing at me."

 

"Trish, I don't-"

 

"Try to hit me, Ward." 

 

It was practically an order, delivered with all the iron resolve he'd guessed at the day before. Obediently, he swung a fist at her. 

 

She stepped back out of reach, easily, a moment before the strike would have landed. 

 

"C'mon, you gotta try harder than that," she smirked at him. 

 

This time he sent a wild at her, putting more speed and force into it and-

 

A quick step back again, and in the same heartbeat she'd caught his wrist and had his arm twisted up behind his back before he realized what she was doing or had a chance to protest, but gently enough not to hurt his shoulder. He doubted she'd even creased his jacket sleeve. 

 

* * * * * * * * * 

 

 

 

She hadn't know what to expect, but for the famous Ward Meachum to suddenly go limp and quiet when she'd twisted his arm behind his back wasn't it. she'd tried to be gentle, just enough pressure for a quick demonstration but not a tight enough grip to hurt him if he tried to break free. For such a tall man, who was likely used to being the one in control all the time, it was somehow. . . off. Releasing him, she grinned up at him as he turned back to face her, rubbing his wrist in surprise. "I've been taking Krav Maga for a while now," she quickly explained. "No one touches me now unless I want them to." The words, the same ones she'd used when Jessica had asked the same questions and received her own, albeit more dramatic, answer, had been her mantra for years. Their effect on Ward was different than on Jess, though; hearing them, his surprise changed to respect, and what might have been a hint of envy. She added that to the growing list of things that didn't add up about the man.

 

At her insistence, he slipped off his suit jacket and hung it over the rack in the corner before squaring off against her when she said to stand like he was about to fight her. 

 

"Ok, now I promise I'm not actually going to hit you with any force, since this is just a demonstration," she could have sworn his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at her promise, "but from the way you just swung at me, and from how you're standing now, it's a pretty easy guess you don't have any real training, and yeah, you're tall, but looming at people isn't gonna work for you forever." 

 

The last remark drew a faint smile from him, making him look suddenly younger and less severe. Telling him to try to stay planted, she reached up and shoved his shoulders back. She'd expected him to stumble back slightly as she she pushed him off balance, but she must have looked as surprised as he did as he just. . . went.  The light shove carried him over backwards, and without even trying to regain his balance, he landed on his butt on the padded floor. If it hadn't been so unsettling, that he went down without even a show of catching himself or a yelp of protest, she'd have laughed at the look of owlish surprise on his face. Instead, she offered her hand and pulled him back to his feet. She ignored his surprise at the gesture and explained that standing parallel, squared off at her the way he'd been was weaker, even if it made him look bigger. Gently, she re-positioned his feet and turned his shoulders to where she wanted, adding the half flinch when she touched him this time before once again going limp in her grasp to the list as well. 

 

Once he was standing to her liking with his arms up in what she decided was a good enough start to a defense for now, she shoved at his shoulders again. This time she nearly laughed at his giant grin as he kept his footing, despite slightly swaying back from her push. At some point, a lock of his carefully combed back hair had come loose and fallen over his forehead, ( _ this time he really does look like a giant kid, and not at all like the bored, drunken exec with the bloodshot eyes I first met at the party)  _

"Ok, I think we can save actually throwing any punches for another night. Lemme show you how to break out of a hold, since that's more what Krav Maga is about." For all the strange reactions she's seen from him, she’d at least picked up on his delight at being able to stand his ground. "Here, you start like this." She demonstrated the steps as she'd been taught; wrists pinned behind her back, arm sweep down and to the side, stomping on the attacker's foot, turning away from the stomp, a blow to the pretend attacker's kidney, and then getting away. They went over the steps a few times together until the sequence made sense to him. "Great, ready to try it for real?" 

 

"Yeah, uh, I think so," he replied with a nervous laugh.

 

"Now, go easy stomping my foot, but otherwise, don't hold back." And she stepped behind him, taking his offered wrists in her grip. As soon as she had his wrists held loosely behind his back, though, she felt him freeze and then go limp again, a faint tremble running down his arms. "Hey, you good? We can stop if you want."

 

"No, I'm ok."

 

"Remember what I said; twist down and to the side."

 

“Yeah, um.”

 

"Ward, are you-"

 

"Hey," he cut her off, "I can do this." 

 

Even with her gentle prompting, though, he couldn't seem to fight back against her grip to pull his arm free. Instead, he laughed off his awkwardness before she could ask if he was ok again.

 

"Trish, uh, maybe we should switch so I can see you actually do this against someone."

 

Pushing down the questions about why such a tall man with such well defined shoulders and arms was having trouble breaking out of the grip of a tiny talk show host who really wasn't holding his wrists that tightly anyway, she agreed and this time turned her back to him with her wrists out to grab. His grip was firm, perhaps a little more than hers had been, but his hands were still soft and gentle around her arms.

 

"You ready back there?"

 

"Ready when you are."

 

Hearing a hesitancy in his voice still, she repeated her promise from before. "Ok, now I'm not actually going to hurt you." She yanked her right arm free, stomping down next to his polished shoe before spinning to the left, swinging her arm up tap over his kidney where a real strike would have landed.

 

Before the light blow could impact, though, Ward violently flinched away from the movement, again stumbling back before falling onto the mats and scuttling across the floor until his back met the wall, staring up at her with undisguised fear. Staring through her, she realized a moment later, the implications finally fitting into place with all his other odd reactions from before. Approaching him slowly, Trish quietly called his name, trying to bring him back from whatever memory he was trapped in. "Ward. Ward, look at me, you need to breathe. C'mon, breathe with me. That's it, breathe slowly, in and out."

 

Finally, his breathing leveled out and gaze returned to focus on her. With an unsteady hand, he pushed back the hair that had fallen into his face. "I-I-I'm sorry, I freaked out at- and, um. Aha,"  an embarrassed laugh failing to disguise the shaking is his voice and the tremble that had returned to his shoulders.

 

She carefully reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, "Ward, are you sure you're ok?"

 

When he nodded he was, saying he'd be ok in a minute, she pushed on "You're safe here, with me, remember? And you can trust me, right?"

 

Again, he nodded shakily.

 

"Alright. Now, you were worried about my safety, but Ward, has someone been hurting you?  

 

This was met with a dark chuckle, "not anymore, bastard's dead now".

 

Now equal parts concerned and curious, she asked "was it your father who hurt you, when you were younger?" wondering that the effects had lasted this long.

 

Again, with a dark laugh that was also half a sob, and he choked out "When I was a kid? The last time he laid a hand on me was two goddamn weeks ago."

 

In surprise, she sat back on her heels "Two weeks. . .? Harold Meachum died thirteen years ago, Ward. What are you talking about? How would that even be possible?

 

Dragging his watering eyes up from the mat between his knees, he admitted, slowly, shakily, "My dad, Harold, was alive for the last thirteen years, living in hiding, and he forced me to keep his secret for him. He. . . ran Rand from behind the scenes, pulling strings and giving me orders, making me into his errand boy when he needed something done. He. . . used me, used Joy against me, knowing how much I loved - love, my sister, to manipulate me so that I could never leave him. And. . . when his threats and coercion and verbal abuse failed, and I actually showed some  _ fucking backbone  _ for once, then yes, Harold would hurt me."

 

In the stunned silence that followed this speech, the sound of the oven timer ringing came down the hall. Trish pulled herself to her feet as though breaking out of a trance and reached down to help him up again. "Ok then. Wow. You’re telling me the whole story over dinner, and I promise you that anything and everything you say will stay between us."  As she spoke, he'd taken her offered hand like he was drowning and she'd thrown him a lifeline , but before he could reply she'd gestured for him to follow her once more, turned and headed out of the gym, through the second door into the entryway and back up the hallway to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has two thumbs and took one Krav Maga workshop at a con this year???? This was originally going to be a shorter chapter, but Trish wanted to at least give our poor trash baby a self defense lesson .


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward finally tells his story.

The light chatter from before was gone as they pulled the steaming trays from the oven and made the final preparations for dinner, and the only conversation between them purely functional, as though his admission and panic had never happened. Once they were sitting with food and glasses of the wine he'd brought between them,  and the open bottle within easy reach on the table Trish finally broke the silence. 

 

"Ward, what. . . what did your father do?"

 

“To me, or in general?”

 

“Ward. Tell me what happened.”

 

For a long minute the words seemed to fight him until, after a swallow of wine, the story started to spill out of him. Between the food and the wine, the security of her apartment, and Trish's gently probing questions prompting him when the narrative started to fight him, he finally told her everything from  Harold's first death and resurrection, to the secret penthouse and all the years serving him, about the Hand, and finally the cascade of events following Danny Rand's reappearance. Again he paused before the day everything went to hell, his food abandoned as he stared bleakly across the table at her. 

 

"I- I know I did some pretty messed up stuff for my dad, despite everything he did to me, despite him hurting me. Trish,please, don't hate me when I tell you this. Please"

 

"You know," staring thoughtfully at her own plate of pasta she speared her fork through it so the tines gave a tiny  _ ching  _ against the plate, "even with all the shit that was in the news about my mom and what she did to me, folks usually assume I'm still pretty normal. I'm not, normal and perfect, myself. I've done some pretty. . . pretty dark stuff to help someone before, and that was for someone I loved. "

 

He gave a disbelieving scoff.  "I highly doubt it compares to this, to. . .  to dumping a pair of mutilated bodies in a pond in a park in the middle of the night for my dad. " 

 

Cocking her head and leaving her fork standing impaled through the noodles, she stared back across the table at him. "Well, does wrapping and disposing of the body of a man who'd been forced to slit his own throat in my best friend's apartment count? I helped scrub the place down with bleach afterward and everything." 

 

As he stared at her in shock, she calmly refilled both their wineglasses.  "So who were they, Ward, these men Harold killed? He was the one to kill them, right? What happened afterwards?"

 

A moment later he'd shaken off the surprise at her confession, and, bracing himself, continued his story." 

 

"I guess I was, well, I was beyond screwed up the next day. I'd blown things with Joy and with the meeting and was on the last of my pills, and even those were barely getting me through. I. . . I finally took Joy's suggestion to take time off, get out of the city. She said rehab clinic and I meant, I-," he buried his head in his hands, scrubbing at his face. "I'm such a goddamn coward. I was going to run all the way to the Bahamas."

 

"Ward-"

 

"Never made it, you probably guessed. I had a secret account I'd been skimming into for years, just to have something to escape on, in case. . . well. . . Turns out it wasn't so secret, he just let me think that. " 

 

She just nodded in understanding. 

 

Draining his glass, he poured himself another. "Harold had emptied it before I even reached the airport that night I- I went to confront him."

 

_ (What else did you do that day?)  _ Trish mused, noticing he'd left out time from the story. 

 

"He said he'd known all along, and let me keep draining money as a goddamn  _ hobby,"  _ he practically spat the last word. "That I made a shitty thief, and to- to stop acting like a child, trying to run away. That I should be  _ grateful  _  for everything he'd done for the family, and to be happy about it. I- I think I said that the last time I'd been happy was the day he'd died." 

 

For a moment, Trish's carefully neutral mask wavered before she caught herself, hiding any response behind a sip of her own wine ( _ Oh, Ward.)  _

 

The quaver crept back into his speech as he told of his father's show of hurt and disappointment, and of the blow he knew, he KNEW he should have seen coming before the sucker punch to his gut landed. Half draining his glass again, he stared down into the dark swirling liquid, unable to meet his companion’s eyes. 

 

"I- he-he had me on my knees in front of him, said that I belonged to him, that everything I was he'd made. Then he walked away, started talking about something else. I. . . scraped together the last shreds of my pride and dignity and self-preservation and. . . " Setting the glass down he finally met her gaze, pleading "Trish, it wasn't just the pain, and the humiliation, and. . . I was scared if I let him keep going there wouldn't be anything of me left, just him. So I- there was this knife on the desk and I just grabbed it and . . . I wasn't thinking. . . and I just remember yelling and. . ." Again he buried his head in his hands, elbows braced on the table and hair falling out of place around his face. "Then I just sat there by his body with his blood on my hands."

 

Again, he drained and refilled his glass, taking another sip before pushing on. "He was the one who showed me how to wrap and disguise a body, so I dumped him in the same way I'd done with the others. The drive back after that was the most happy and free I'd felt in thirteen years." Glancing up at her hesitantly, he seemed to expect her to be horrified, to tell him to leave, to call the cops to- 

 

( _ to react the way I did when Jess showed me that room. This must be what they call character development. Or just lots of good wine.)  _

 

"When I made it back to the penthouse Danny was there, and, uh, he was a little surprised to find me there. He was actually scared for Harold, if you can believe that. They'd been working together against the people who'd resurrected the son of a bitch the first time, and Danny was freaking out that he'd pushed them too far and they'd taken Harold."

 

( _ The first time?)  _ She cocked her head in confusion. "Danny knew about your father? And who were-"

 

"That's. . . another long story, and to be honest I don't even understand all of it. Anyway, I said some. . . pretty terrible things to Danny, told him he was toxic, 'a cancer' I think, and that I wanted him to stay away from me. "

 

"Ward-"

 

"I just. . . I'd just murdered my own undead father, and I needed the kid to get out of there and away from me, and I let him think the. . . other guys had done something to him. It was cruel, I know, but it got him out of there. I'd. . . picked up cleaning stuff on the drive back, and I spent the rest of that night scrubbing the blood out of the carpet." 

 

The quiet stretched out between them as he considered the contents of his wineglass, absentmindedly shoving back the dark hair that had fallen loose around his face. 

 

The next few days he skimmed over; about being ousted from Rand and barely caring, only being grateful he was offered a good deal in exchange for being kicked out. His fight with Joy was also hard for him to tell Trish, having to admit everything she saw in him and valued was a product of Harold's manipulation. "I was so ready- I thought- I wanted to tell her everything, all the secrets I'd kept from her for years, tell her about Dad and the Hand and what I'd had to do for us. For her. Turned out that was one hell of a mistake. I dragged her up to the penthouse and barely made it before- I saw, thought I saw. . ."

 

( _ ‘The Hand’? That’s a new one. Maybe Jess’s heard the name before.)  _ "What'd you see, Ward?"

 

"I swear to god it was like some Edgar Allan Poe bullshit, but I thought I saw blood leaking out from under the door, and in the elevator. I chickened out then and. . . I snapped at Joy also, that I was the last person she should look up to, and I didn't have time for her ‘daddy issues’. I was. . . I couldn't stand whatever it was she saw in me. The next few days are. . .  something of a blur. I think I went back to my apartment and climbed inside a bottle for a day or so, then I got a text that I was needed back at the penthouse. Once I was as sober and . . . cleaned up as I could manage, I made the trip back, half dreading what I'd see there." 

 

Again, he paused to empty and refill the wine glass, finishing off the bottle he'd brought. Wordlessly, Trish stood to grab a new one from under the counter and opened it, placing it on the table between them after refilling her own glass. 

 

"When I entered that apartment for the first time since. . . that night, and heard Harold's voice, I was sure  I was hallucinating again. or that it was some nightmare. Then. . . he came around the corner, alive and clean and in a suit, and. . .  he had the same dagger I’d killed him with, and I was sure it was my turn to die in that cursed place. I- I-There was no way to run or fight him, not that there'd ever been, and I couldn't move and-" a pause to collect himself. 

 

For a moment, he seemed on the edge of crying. 

 

"-and then he dropped the knife and pulled me into a hug and actually apologized for everything he'd done, and asked if I could forgive him, and that he loved me. He wanted to know how he could make it up to me, and I said that I'd only ever wanted to be free of him. I told him. . . well, when I walked out that night I knew he wouldn't just let me go that easily. It was stupid, I know, but I went to go talk to some people Danny told me about, and, well . . ."

 

"Who were they?"

 

"I. . ." he trailed off, again considering the wine in his glass.  "I went to talk to the Triad, to ask for their help with Harold."

"Help? How?"  _ (THE TRIAD???? Oh Ward, I've been desperate and crazy before, but that was insane.")  _ Sipping from her wineglass with forced calm, she covered her dismay before he could notice any reaction. 

 

"They told me what had brought Dad back the first time, and why he. . . came back again, and. . . by that point I'd turned to this synthetic heroin the people who'd been behind everything with Dad had made, just to take the edge off the fear and anxiety and, well . . . he knew that, somehow, and even though this stuff was legal, the stuff he had planted in my car was real, and, uh, less legal."

 

"He. . . he had you arrested?"  

 

Suddenly uncomfortable with the narrative, he tugged nervously at his tie, loosening it before unbuttoning the collar and cuffs of his dress shirt. "Yeah, um, he'd had me framed and admitted to the same. . . I got admitted to a mental hospital when I started saying that my dead father was the one who'd planted the stuff. It was. . . I was. . .

 

"I bet that would do it, and I'm guessing the detox from their shit was ugly as hell." 

 

"It was. I kept. . I, um. Eventually someone from the Hand found me and broke me out in exchange for my help. For help capturing Danny."

 

Letting the last sentence hang, he paused as though awaiting her judgement of him. 

 

"I-," pausing again, he swallowed heavily, then continued,"he said they were done with Harold, and that also in exchange for Danny they would put the bastard down for good. I- I tried to negotiate that I'd get Joy out of there before they came for him, but it backfired and she ended up with a bullet through her side and- and, then Danny actually showed up. They took him away, and I was alone with my sister bleeding out and Dad still very much alive. We. . . we rushed her to the hospital, and Dad said he wanted me to come back to Rand, and that he was done using Danny.” 

 

His shoulders shifted then, Trish noticed. as though remembering a weight lifted from them. 

 

"I couldn't- wouldn't keep his secrets anymore. As soon as I got out of earshot of Dad, I called Danny and warned him people were coming. I didn't know if he'd get out in time, but. . ."

 

"Yeah, I get that," she nodded for him to continue. 

 

He told her about his renewed horror when Harold showed up at the office the next day, with every intention of taking control again, about the reminder that every time Ward had tried to fight him in the past, he'd lost, and how it usually had been painfully.

 

"Danny called to meet me that night in some back alley about getting the tablet with all the evidence of what Harold was doing back. He asked. . . he wanted to know why I was helping him now. I told him that I was doing it to help myself, and that whatever he might be feeling from being on the run and hunted for one day couldn't compare to what I'd lived with my whole life. It was. . . that felt like the first time I'd actually admitted to what he'd done. That. . . everything before had been a lie, and it was time to do things because I wanted to."

 

With some embarrassment he confessed how easily he'd been found by his father after sneaking into the office, and alarm finally flashed across Trish's face when he told her about being stunned by the blow from the golf club and being dragged bloody across the office.

 

"Um, most of the actual battle is kinda blurry," he confessed, "probably had a concussion and all, but I remember pleading with Harold to stop, and then I was on the roof with one of Danny's friends and we were listening to Danny fighting my dad. I-then we caught up with them, and Dad, he was injured somehow and there was blood all down his shirt, might've been a hole through him also like in that movie. He- he'd grabbed up the gun I guess he'd dropped and aimed it at Danny's back as he walked away and-."

 

Again, he emptied his wineglass, setting it down deliberately without refilling it.

 

"He didn't have a chance to get a shot off before I fired. It was. . . it felt. . . it was different from before. I was just. . . putting him down. The force of the rounds carried him backwards off the roof."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD!!!! The con happened and was awesome, but now I'm back to working on other projects and trying to keep this fic going. 
> 
> This chapter ended a little suddenly, I know, but there's actual conversation happening next, I promise, and not just Ward telling what happened in the show. This was meant to be shorter, then he started talking and deciding what and what not to tell Trish.


	5. Chapter 5

At that final, terrible, confession, he stopped again, watching her as though he was weighing whatever reaction his words prompted. When he found no trace of horror or disgust, he pushed on once more, telling her about the confused days that followed the battle. He'd managed to keep himself going despite the prolonged silence from Joy and knowledge of what he'd done as repairs were made to the office and stories were told to cover up what happened that night. He told her about the quiet cremation, making sure once and for all that Harold was gone,  about asking Danny to come aboard running the company with him and his acceptance of the offer.

 

"So after the battle, and after Danny. . . well, repairing and remodeling the offices has been, I guess, cathartic, in a way. I feel like I'm finally cleaning the last traces of Dad from there, even finally taking down his portrait from the wall. We'd just moved back in when Danny took off back to China with his girlfriend, and now. . . it's back to business as usual" he finished with a shrug, signaling that the story was done.

 

At that cue, Trish stood and started gathering up the plates of food they'd both barely picked at, and he leaped  up to help clear the table and clean up from dinner, again working in silence, since he seemed eager for anything to distract from thinking about the story he'd just told, and what might happen after that, and Trish found herself grateful for the quiet, if just to process everything she'd learned.

 

Once everything was cleaned or put away, she scooped up her wineglass and the mostly-empty bottle and led the way out to the sofa, where she curled up against one arm after depositing the bottle on the coffee table. He followed more hesitantly, carefully cupping his glass of wine as he sat gingerly on the other side of the couch, staring down into the swirling contents as he avoided making eye contact.

 

Finally, he broke the silence. "Well? You're not shouting at me, or ordering me out, or calling the cops on me, so that's better than I expected, I guess. Do you. . . have anything to say, either way, because I'll understand if you don't believe me, or think I'm a monster because of all the shit I did, or even call me a spineless coward for not standing up to Harold and doing something sooner. God knows I've already called myself all of that before." 

 

Despite his casual tone, his words had the bite of bitterness to them, and something in the way he protectively held his glass of wine, and the set of his shoulders seemed like. . .  _ (he looks as if I'm about to hit him, oh god.)  _ Trish realized in a flash, her heart twinging at the thought. 

 

"Ward, look at me," she gently commanded. 

 

Almost automatically, he obediently dragged his glance up to meet hers, and the look in his eyes said that the request was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

 

"I'm not angry at you, or disgusted by what you had to do. You've been manipulated by someone you were supposed to be able to trust, and had the one person you had to care for used as leverage against you, and conditioned by your father into believing you were helpless." 

 

"But I wasn't- I should've at least tried to fight back, or rebelled against him, or-"

 

"You did, you did fight back, each time you threatened to walk out forever you were fighting for your own identity. He started his conditioning when you were still a child, Ward, when you were too small and too young to really fight, so there was always that part of your mind that said that fighting back was pointless, even when you were long since grown up."

 

At that, he looked back into his glass in shame. "What about you, though?"

 

"What about me?"

 

"You went through shit, too, and still fought your way free of your mom years ago. I remember reading everything that came out during your case about the drugs and abuse. I envied you, then."

 

His drunken confession from the night of the party came back to her, then, suddenly taking on a new meaning in light of his confession.  _ (Admired me. . .envied me. . .shit, he wanted to escape as much as I did back then.)  _

 

He started slightly when she rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, and Trish mentally kicked herself before replying, "yeah, I went along with my mother's orders, and put up with all her bullshit for years before I got away from her, but I also had the. . . strength, and support of my sister to encourage me." There must have been something in her voice at her private joke that caused the man beside her to turn to her with the question in his eyes, but he didn't ask what the joke was about. 

 

"Ward, you've been fighting alone for all these years so that your sister would be safe, both from how your dad treated you, and from the knowledge of what he really was, as well as from any action from the people controlling him, and that itself took incredible strength and bravery." 

 

Her last point drew a skeptical laugh from him before she continued, "he kept you isolated, and that left you alone with his manipulation and abuse, keeping you feeling powerless and helpless.  He fed you the idea that Joy had to be kept out of his mess, and whether it was true or not, making you keep his secrets from the only other person close to you kept you under his control. What you did under that control, Ward," she stressed her point with a slight squeeze of his shoulder, "is not your fault. I've seen people who were controlled by someone, and made to do terrible things torn apart by what they'd done, but I've also seen them heal and pull together." 

 

"Does. . .does that have to do with your story from a while back, about the man you said can control people with his voice? I thought that was some wild rumor"  

 

She gave a sad smirk in reply. "It's not just a wild story, no. But it's also not my story to tell, even though I was a part of it. Still, even though you weren't that man's victim, you've been just as much controlled and used by someone else." 

 

Sensing that was a far as she could push the subject that night, she changed subjects, shifting back to curl into the couch cushions again. "How've you been doing since Danny left?"she asked, carefully not marking time by Harold's death. 

 

"I, um, giving up the pills has been hard, you know?"

Trish hummed an agreement, and prompted him to continue. 

 

"Instead I've, I know this isn't how rehab or whatever is supposed to work, but I've started drinking more, instead, just to dull the guilt over what happened, what I did, and to just keep my shit together enough to keep running Rand without Joy working with me or Harold. . . well, running me. I still sometimes dream about it all, you know?" he turned back to her with a half-choked laugh. "About severed heads and walls oozing blood, about Joy being hurt because I tried to save her, and about Dad coming back again, both looking like himself and as rotting corpse, creeping up on me in the night. And. . . and Danny is still gone and I don't know when he'll be back or how to contact him and Colleen, or their friend the nurse who was with them during the battle and who stitched me up afterwards. I'm. . . I'm finally free for the first time in my life and I'm still scared and alone. I spend my days at work, and the nights I don't pass out on the couch in the office and actually drag myself to the apartment, I drink . . . I drink to forget about the feeling of dad’s hidden cameras watching me that I still haven't been able to make myself get removed yet." 

 

Once the rush of words had trailed off, he drained the last of his glass of wine, and, after setting it down on the coffee table, wrapped his arms around himself, curling over as though protecting himself. 

 

Setting down her own glass beside his, Trish scooted back across the couch and once more gently took hold of his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. For a moment he was rigid in her arms, before suddenly going limp, tucking his face into her shoulder as she reassured him that he wasn't alone. "Danny and Joy are going to come back eventually, Ward, and until they do I'm here if you need someone to talk to." 

 

For a few long moment, they just sat that way, before, composing himself once more, Ward pulled himself away and sat up, saying it was getting late as he collected his wineglass and the now-empty bottle before turning to take them back to the kitchen. At that cue, Trish stood as well, following him back. As she caught up with him, he took her glass as she wordlessly took the now-empty bottle to drop in the recycling with the first bottle, as he put the dirty glasses in the dishwasher. Another moment of silence followed before he cleared his throat, thanked her for dinner, and for listening, before he turned to head for the front door. Before he could take more than a few steps, though, she reached out, taking a hold of his arm, and feeling him go limp under her hand again.

 

( _ Dammit, I forgot about that, but he's not leaving like this.) _ Ward, wait. After. . . after what you've told me, both all the crap you've had to drag up again and relive to talk about, and admitting you still don't feel safe in your own apartment. . . well, I'm not going to send a recovering addict away to go home alone to somewhere that doesn't feel like home, and definitely not someone who's had as much wine as you've had.  _ (I wouldn't send me home after how much wine I've had, for that matter.)  _ And you're definitely not driving in this state, either, so for tonight you can stay on my couch. 

 

Instead of arguing, his shoulders slumped slightly, as though relieved of some burden he didn't realize he'd been carrying, and he mumbled a thanks before she led him gently back to the couch. 

 

"Wait here, I have some spare clothes if you wanna change."

 

When she got back with clothes, he'd already taken off his suit jacket and shoes, and was sitting slumped on the edge of one cushion. He accepted them wordlessly, this time silently nodding his thanks, and she directed him to the bathroom to change while she grabbed bedding for him from a closet. As she was finishing shaking the blanket out over the sheet tucked into the cushions, he reemerged around the corner, still pulling the t-shirt down over his chest, and for a moment she could see the lingering greens and yellows of a fading bruise over his chest. Then it was gone, and he was standing in her living room in the old sweats, which had been left behind by. . . someone she didn't care to think about, and a shirt a guest on her show'd given her once, with his hair falling loosely into his face, and looking for all the world like an overgrown student and not like the CEO of a multinational company. For a moment he seemed lost, blinking sleepily, with his suit folded under one arm. 

 

"Um. The couch is ready, and the light switches are over there if you need them." As she passed him on the way to her own room, she again gently grabbed his arm, quietly thanking him for trusting her and reminding him he was safe in her home, then with a muttered "good night," she slipped into her room, sliding the doors shut behind her and leaving him to get comfortable in the relative privacy of her living room. Before the doors were fully shut, though, she heard a barely audible "thank you, Trish" muttered in reply. 


End file.
